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the streetlights and the geometric oddments of light that fell from people’s houses.
We’d been told by Zhang to watch the news at 6 pm.
At a quarter to six, I realised that I should have been at Ben’s parents’ evening, to discuss his
report.
Laura said, ‘Don’t worry about that. Don’t even think about it. You can go later in the week, once
he’s back.’
The first item on the news was a report on flooding in Bangladesh: thousands of people had died.
Ben was the second item.
DCI Fraser, who I’d met briefly, stood on the steps at Kenneth Steele House and appealed to the
public to ‘help them with their inquiries’. ‘We’re extremely concerned about this young boy,’ she said,
‘and we would urge anybody who has any information about him, or his whereabouts, to get in touch
with us.’
She was immaculate in police uniform. Wildly curly grey hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses
that sat at the bottom of her nose, under sharp eyes, gave her the look of a bluestocking academic.
‘We are also requesting that the public do not organise searches of their own,’ she said. ‘Though
we thank the members of the community who are offering their help.’
A helpline number and the photograph of Ben that I’d given the police flashed up, filling the screen.
It’s the strangest thing in the world to find that the story you are watching on TV is your own, to
realise that you have entrusted a stranger with finding your child, and to then have to accept that you
are as disconnected as anybody else watching, that you are essentially impotent. When Ben’s face had
gone from the screen, Laura turned the TV off. I wanted to howl with sorrow, or to rage, but I did
neither, because my hands shook and my stomach was turning, threatening to disgorge the tea I’d been
sipping, the tiny morsels of toast I’d forced myself to swallow at the behest of my sister.
The call about the press conference came later that evening. The police wanted me to appear in front
of the cameras the next morning, to read out a statement appealing for help in finding Ben. They would
send a car for me.
‘I can’t leave the house,’ I said. ‘What if he comes home?’
Laura said, ‘I’ll stay here. You’ve got to go. I’ll stay here.’
‘Should I stay?’ said Nicky. ‘I could stay.’
Both of them looked at me, wanting me to decide.
‘Nicky should come with me,’ I said.
Laura was my best friend but Nicky was Ben’s aunt, our only family.
‘She’s right,’ Laura said. ‘You should be there.’ She looked at me. ‘And it can only be good if you
appear on TV. People will care more about Ben. They really will. I’ll come over in the morning
before you leave, and I won’t leave the house, not even for a minute. Not until you’re back. I
promise.’
Laura told my sister that she should choose an outfit for me to wear, that I should be as presentable
as possible. She said it was important, even if it felt trivial to think about it at a time like this. She
looked closely at the gash on my forehead, and I winced when she touched the edge of it.
‘I don’t think you can put make-up on it, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Nicky said. ‘It’s too raw.’
Laura peered at it. I could see her eyes following its trajectory across my forehead. ‘Let’s see how
it looks in the morning,’ she said.
‘Could we cover it with a dressing?’ Nicky asked.